


I wish I might

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Demon Stiles Stilinski, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Referenced prostitution, Road Trip, Spark Stiles Stilinski, slow burn sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7228903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles died. </p><p>Stiles died and came back a little bit wrong. Like, he's pretty sure he's a demon-type of wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I wish I might

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short drabble in response to an ask, but it's huge and stuff so. Yes. Please read the tags for warnings.

_ _

 

 

 

_I’m tired, and no one notices. There’s blood in my spit, under my nails, and no one notices. I’m present, but not pretty._

_And so_

_No one notices._

* * *

 

It’s loud, even tucked away in the tiny corner of the club they’d managed to secure early in the evening. The music has them yelling to one another, voices dipping in and out between heavy bass lines and uncomplicated lyrics. It’s no better when DJ switches tracks, not with the ever present noise of the crowd—a solid wall of people on the dance floor all shouting to be heard. The whole thing is obnoxious, irritating, chaotic. Stiles hates the part of him that _likes_ it.

He thought he’d gotten over that.

  
Scott’s telling—yelling—stories to the rest of the pack, looking at him like that will get him to join in. Stiles looks back blankly; he just wants to leave. Not because of the company—although, Liam will probably always irritate him—and not because of Scott’s attempt at bringing him into the conversation.

It’s more the fact that Stiles has all these gaps in his memory that leave him feeling a little left out, and unstable. Apparently, it’s a pretty common side effect of what he’s going through, but accepting that as a fact doesn’t mean he has to like it. He _hates_ that he can’t remember his mother’s face anymore, or most of middle school, or what he did last summer from May until July. The gaps are stupid, random, and every time Scott reminisces, he wishes he could either just  _stop_ , or somehow get those memories back.

But, well, that’s kind of how he got into this mess in the first place.

Wishes.

“—seen his face, it was hilarious,” Scott finishes, shaking his head and laughing along with the others. Liam is almost on the floor, laughing so hard he’s a red-faced mess hanging off of Mason’s lap.

They’re all idiots, seriously, for even being here. Those two are obviously underage, by a good couple of years, but Scott insisted that the entire ‘pack’ be present for pack bonding nights. And tonight was pack bonding via the newly refurbished Jungle, which means fake ID’s all around, and vouching for the two that still look like kids. Who are _supposed_ to be sticking to soda, have been acting as drunk as everyone else since their third glass.

Oh well, if they get kicked out, maybe Stiles’ dad will understand. If his dad will even look at him, never mind listen to him long enough to explain his way out of trouble.

“Dude, your eyes…” Scott tries to whisper, only it’s more of a raspy shout. Stiles is pretty sure the alpha is actually drunk, something he can thank Lydia and her magical wolfy-drink for.

“What about them?” Stiles whisper-shouts back.

“Gotta check 'em! They’re doing that creepy dark thing again.”

Shit.

Stiles ducks his head, and struggles to get himself under control. It doesn’t help that Jackson, freshly returned from London, is sitting across from the table snickering at him.

“Who gives the spazz kid powers, anyway?” Jackson mocks, only to wince when Lydia does something short and violent under the table without dropping her smile a centimeter.

“Jackson, _honey_ , what did I say about this topic?” She asks primly.

“Not to… Bring it up.”

“Good. Don’t do it again.”

Jackson makes a face at Stiles, his eyes flickering gold when their eyes meet. Stiles feels his own flicker in response, and the look of disgust that flashes across Jackson’s face has him pushing himself away from the table.

He yells out to Scott, “I’m going home!” And leaves them without looking back to see if they even noticed.

Scott probably says something, but Stiles is already weaving his way through the chaos to escape. It’s only after the third dancer accidentally elbows him in gut, that he catches himself wishing they would all just—

No.

No more wishes.

Stiles stumbles out the door, breathing out a silent thanks at the first breath of fresh air . His ears are still ringing from the sheer volume of it all, and not for the first time, finds himself wondering how the werewolves can stand it.

It’s a strong gust of cold air that has him giving up on this fresh air thing, and shuffling towards his jeep. His mind wanders to the story Scott was telling. It was some random moment in time where the Old Stiles had been funny, back when he was close to everyone. It was lacrosse related, which means Stiles has retained some of the memory thanks to its 'contribution’ to his current situation. It’s all semantics, really, and if he’s being perfectly honest, he doesn’t even want that memory. Not as much as the ones he knows are missing, the one’s he needs to be _human_.

God damn wishes. Wishes and Sparks. He should have known, all those years ago, when Deaton told him to believe and he closed the circle of ash with bated breath and a _wish_. Maybe if the veterinarian had bothered to explain it more, or if someone— _anyone_ thought to question the fact that Stiles Stilinski, the pack human, managed to magically close a circle of ash. Maybe, just maybe, the pack might have clued in when he got possessed by a super old fox demon—because even he can see how, logically, choosing the _weakest_ of the group to possess is a poor strategy. Maybe if someone had sat down and talked to him, or listened, he wouldn’t have struggled to hide how broken he was after that. Or noticed how little sleep he was getting. Or the way he stopped touching other people. Or when the jokes finally stopped. Maybe if someone had thought about him, just a little more, he wouldn’t have died.

He almost wishes he could turn back time. Almost.

* * *

 

**Two Months Previous**

 

“Stiles!”

“Hold on!”

“We’re late!” Scott reminds him. Again.

Stiles types faster, ignoring the little unimpressed emoji he’s getting in response. Derek can suck it if he thinks Stiles is going to spell perfectly when he’s in a rush.

“Stiles, it’s time to go!” Scott calls out.

“And I said _hold on!_ ,” he yells back, finishing his final burst of misspellings.

_‘—and I didn’t wanty go but Scott is insistinf so I gotta. Tell cora hi and don’t step on anymore lizards or Ill tell jackson.’_

Dots form as Derek begins typing his reply, but Scott’s coming upstairs, and doesn’t know that Stiles has this one thing for himself, and wouldn’t understand why it’s a secret, or why conversations with Derek Hale _are_ a 'thing’. He would probably tease him, and Stiles is so messed up he would probably cry or maybe hurt his best friend if that happens. Actually, he’s more likely to hurt himself, so that’s kind of a fail.

Slamming the laptop shut, Stiles quickly pulls his hoodie on so it looks like he was at least trying to get ready before Scott bursts into the room looking peeved.

“Why’d you say you’d come if you had other plans?” He asks, making a sharp gesture with his hand at Stiles’ laptop, and all Stiles can think is: _Shit, he must have heard the keys when he was typing._

And: _What plans?_

Stiles blinks at him stupidly. Did he make other plans? With who? Did he forget again? Double book? He doesn’t have enough friends to double book, so what is…?

“Did I—?”

Scott interrupts him, “I have no idea, Stiles. You never tell me what you’re doing when you ditch, so why would _I_ know?”

Which is… okay, it’s true. But it’s not like he’s been ditching Scott on purpose, he’s just… He hasn’t been feeling the whole pack meeting thing, lately. All they do is hang out, plan runs around the 'perimeter’ of Beacon Hills—which he can’t be a part of because he’s human and werewolves are faster—eat gross amounts of pizza, and partake in training montages that, again, Stiles isn’t a part of. He’s the weak, fucked up human that everyone handles like glass because he got possessed and that means he’s turned into a fragile baby bunny who needs coddling. The irony is, he _is_ fucked up, so it’s a little late to slap a 'fragile’ sticker on him. He’s already broken.

There’s also the teeny, tiny fact that the 'pack’ has become a bunch of strangers, which hasn’t really inspired Stiles to stick around. Liam and Mason are… Nice enough, but Stiles knows next to nothing about them.

Scott, Lydia, even Jackson are at least people he’s grown up with. Friends—again, Jackson, sort of—he’s watched transform into not-human-but-mostly-decent people. Friends he’s fought with, been saved by, and spilt blood for. So, while those three are, obviously pack, every time Stiles steps into Scott’s crowded living room, he feels like he walked into the wrong house. It’s like he’s still expecting large windows, the smell of old books, a grumpy voice telling him he’s late, Isaac’s sarcasm, Erica’s laugh, and Boyd’s Buddha silences.

Hell, at this point he’d take Peter’s company, at least he _knows_ that kind of crazy… And maybe they’d get along better these days, since they’ve got so much in common now.

That’s the horrible thought that weighs on his mind as he drives them over to Scott’s house, and walks into the pack meeting with a frown.

It goes as well as could be expected. Yet another meeting with Scott being irritable and snappish towards him when Stiles doesn’t agree with his plans, Lydia purring over Jackson, like she has been ever since he came back, Liam sticking to Scott’s side like he’s Jesus Christ Super-Glue, and Mason trying really, really hard to be a part of everything werewolf at once.

And Stiles? Stiles sits on the sidelines, adding an Expected but Inappropriate Stiles Brand Comment every so often—just enough to pretend he’s present, instead of focusing on the chaos in his own head.

The problem with being left alone with your own thoughts is that they tend to overwhelm, to convince you that the voice in the back of your mind is _right_.

The one whispering, ’ _You’re unwanted. Unneeded. Useless. Disgusting. Tainted. You should be dead. You should be dead. You should be dead._ ’

It’s gets you doing things like making wishes.

He’s doesn’t even remember how the pack meeting ends, but one minute he’s sitting in an armchair in Scott’s living room, the next he’s driving home in the dark, alone.

Stiles doesn’t know why he does it, he really doesn’t. There’s this scream building up in his chest, bubbling over and making his throat ache. He needs to let it out, but there’s no where he can scream where one of the werewolves won’t hear him and come running to save him from himself.

He thinks, ’ _I wish I was dead_ ,’ and promptly disappears from behind the wheel with a cartoon-esk pop.

* * *

 

A deputy finds his jeep, burnt out at the bottom of a ravine, fifty miles outside of Beacon Hills. No one knows why Stiles was out there, but a rumor starts that it was suicide.

A lot of of his fellow high school students say they saw it coming.

The official report says that the fire got so hot, his body was nothing but ash in only minutes.

* * *

 

Scott doesn’t handle it well, which is both touching and horrifying to those around him. Because he _has_ to fix it, he has to save Stiles from this, and he refuses to give up even when the sheriff finally tells him to stop coming over. Because Stiles is _dead, Scott. He’s not coming back._

* * *

 

No one tells Derek. It’s not until he shows up on Scott’s doorstep asking why Stiles hasn’t replied to him in weeks that he finds out. When Scott babbles promises of bringing Stiles back, Derek just turns around and leaves.

  
Only to come back a few days later with spell books, and settle in to help with the search.

* * *

 

It’s Lydia who finds the spell, who figures out what they need, and casts the damned thing against Deaton’s wishes. He warned them several times that Stiles won’t be the same person anymore.

They don’t listen.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles comes back different.

At first, he’s screaming, writhing in pain from being rematerialized against his will—against his _wish_. The Spark doesn’t like it, and neither does fate or whatever, because coming back to life is _painful_ and the first thing he does is tell them to _never do that again_.

He scares them a little by baring his nice, sharp teeth, when he says it.

They didn’t honestly think he’d end up in heaven or something, did they?

* * *

 

 

“Stiles.”

Frowning, Stiles drags his attention away from the pavement to a figure lurking the shadows. There’s a hint of blue in the dark before Derek steps into the dull red glow of the Jungle’s neon sign.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, drawing himself out of his remenessing-slouch as Derek comes closer. He can at least pretend he’s not crumpling under the weight of the world, or whatever.

“I was doing a sweep of the city while you guys had a pack meeting, thought I’d swing by.”

“So, you were stuck on baby-city-ing duty while everyone else parties?”

Derek makes a face, but turns away to sniff towards the club’s door instead of answering. He seems… Conflicted, like maybe he wants to go in there and get his grind on with someone. Or maybe he smells Scott’s pack in there, and is  _pining_  for his own. Maybe both.

“Why are you here?” Stiles blurts out.

“You already—”

“I mean here, in Beacon Hills.”

Derek stares at him for longer than necessary, until Stiles is pretty sure the guy is waiting for Stiles to add to his question, or maybe just disappear. Since he does neither of these things, Derek sighs, and his eyebrows pinch to stage A on the brow scale of irritation.

“I came back to see what was going on, and help Scott.”

“Okaaay,” Stiles says slowly. “But that was months ago. Why are you _still_ here? Why didn’t you go back to Cora?”

“Why do you _think_?” The older man hisses, looking more irritated by the minute. Which just doesn’t make any sense, it’s just a question, Stiles is just curious. There’s no reason to go Brow Level C already.

Weirdly enough, though, this is the kind of thing that gets his brain working again. It’s like he can’t quite… Grasp his old self anymore, until Derek comes along and gets mad at him, or something. Maybe it’s that new dark side of him that feeds off of chaos.

Then again, maybe he’s always thrived off of confrontation.

“It doesn’t matter what I think, i’m just wondering why you’re hanging around, dude.” Stiles nods towards the door of the club, a pitying smile forming across his lips. “You’re not exactly joining in all the fun and games, here.”

“And _you_ are?”

“At least I was invited.”

“At least i’m not pushing my pack away every time i’m 'invited’ to a meeting,” Derek shoots back, before flash of surprise crosses his face. He probably didn’t mean to say that, but it doesn’t make it any less infuriating to hear. Because it means Scott’s complained about him. To Derek.

Something in Stiles’ head switches off.

“Yeah?” He purrs, leaning into Derek’s space. He’s doing it again, he’s going to push too far. He should stop, _God, please stop, please, I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to say this._ “At least I _have_ a pack who wants me, Derek. Where’s your’s?”

Oh.

Stiles remembers that expression on Derek’s face when Boyd died. He remembers it appearing before, and the way Derek carried Erica’s body. He remembers wanting to never, ever see that expression on this man’s face again.

Too bad, he’s the one who just put it there.

Derek leaves without another word, too shattered to speak, too _exhausted_ to lash out at Stiles like he should. Like he usually does when these little bouts of nastiness happen. The ones he’s had ever since Scott dragged him back to life.

Maybe Stiles finally pushed too far, this time. Maybe Derek will hunt him down later tonight and put an end to this little charade of his.

It’s gross that _that_ thought almost brings hope.

Feeling a little less numb, Stiles climbs into his jeep with static on his mind. Sadness and guilt aren’t really much of a trade up from nothing, but at least he’s feeling something again.

* * *

 

 

The sheriff never expected to have such a weird kid, but there was no disliking the one he got. Stiles _was_ weird, and loud, hyper, messy, loyal to a fault. But most of all, he was happy. God, he used to be so _happy_.

Then Scott was bitten, and things steadily went down hill from there. At least, that’s what he thought. He really thought things couldn’t get any worse after Stiles got possessed, but then it was some stuff in Mexico, a de-aged Derek Hale that was a little traumatizing to see, evil time-traveling doctors with all these messed up kids who make Stiles _kill_ in self defense, and then the worst thing of all. His beautiful, weird, loyal kid died.

 

  
He _died._

John has seen death, he’s seen the body of his wife sprawled out on her hospital bed where she struggled in her last moments, too confused and lost to simply let go. He has seen it, and lived through it. All because he had Stiles.

But this was different, because through everything, through every dangerous, insane situation Stiles got into, he always got out of it again. _Always_. Even if he was a little beat up afterwards, a little scarred, a little damaged, he always came back to him.

Then he didn’t. Then John finally got that call, the one he used to worry about Stiles getting about _him_. Then, it was a crime scene, not one he was in control of, but one he was a guest to, and he couldn’t even make it past the police tape anyway, because all it took was one look at the charred out frame of the jeep, and he _couldn’t_.

And then there was silence.

A lot of it, all through the house, in his office, in his truck. No feet stomping down the stairs, no sudden bursts of laughter from whatever nonsense that kid watched, no lunch-time greetings in the office, no screams at night from all nightmares Stiles earned like scars.

He never noticed just how loud the wall clock was, or that the kitchen faucet had a drip, or that he could hear every lawn mower on the street, or what grief sounded like.

 

— _It sounds like silence._ —

 

  
And it stayed like that until Stiles came back. His beautiful, weird, kid came back to him, just walked up the front steps and knocked on the door.

He’d really, truly thought there could be nothing worse than losing Stiles. As it turns out, there is.

* * *

 

 

When Stiles gets home, his dad is at the kitchen table with some case files. It’s an odd sight these days, since Stiles got back and the sheriff started avoiding him. It managed to stir up something nostalgic and painful in his empty chest, and after another failed pack meeting and the nasty business with Derek, Stiles isn’t ready for anymore attempts at feelings today.

“Hi dad.”

Apparently, he’s a masochist.

His father actually flinches at the sound of his voice, but has the decency to cover it up with a cough, and a shuffle of papers. Stiles will never forget the flinch, though.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

Ah, so that’s why he’s here, he thought he’d be free of him for another hour or so. Stiles can physically feel his energy levels droop even lower at this. It just sucks, this thing between him and his dad. He feels like a ghost in his own home, which, well, is kind of accurate in a way.

It stills hurts, when Stiles can feel.

Shrugging, he replies as casually as possible, “yeah, the cl—Scott’s house was too loud, I needed some quiet.”

“You? Quiet?” His dad laugh, something of his old self shining through with bemused incredulity. But the moment doesn’t last, and seconds later Stiles can see that shadow close over his dad once more. Stiles said or did something wrong, _again_. Something the old Stiles didn’t do, or something that reminds the sheriff of what Stiles is these days.

Feeling a little brave—or stupid—Stiles decides to drop some truth on him, to finish off his evening with just enough guilt to suffocate himself with.

“It was loud d-down there,” he begins, unable to keep his voice from wobbling as he remembers. “There’s… There was a lot of screaming, or laughing, I don’t know… Sometimes I couldn’t tell which was which.”

His dad is finally looking at him, but it’s not a good look. He’s hating every second of this, he wants it to stop. “You don’t have to talk about it, you know, I know it’s hard to—”

“I just like the quiet a little more now,” he interrupts, actually desperately needing his dad to understand this. That he’s still _him_ , that he’s trying to be 'normal’, that going through what he’s been through hasn’t completely erased him. Only parts of him.

“That’s all, dad,” he whispers, “I promise.”

His father’s nodding is unconvincing, as is his reassuring smile. But Stiles accepts it gracefully, because that’s all he gets these days.

* * *

 

  
He really misses hugs.

Maybe he can find a stranger on the street who will hug him, someone who didn’t know the Old Stiles. Maybe he’ll find someone who won’t recognize what he is, a normal human person who’ll love him and laugh with him, and hug him.

The thought of getting away, to a new place where people could love him is almost enough to sustain him. Almost.

* * *

 

It’s been months since he came back when Scott suddenly comes up behind him and pats him on the back just like he used to. Old Stiles might have jumped a little, laughed, probably said 'hi’.

  
When New Stiles finally calms down enough to focus on his surroundings, he’s got Jackson’s arms wrapped tight around his middle, voice shouting in his ear to **stop** , and blood in his mouth . Across from him, Scott’s just standing there with a chunk taken out of his arm in the shape of Stiles’ teeth. His sharp teeth, not his human teeth.

Apologies just don’t seem to cut it, if the bruises Jackson leaves around his torso are any hint.

Scott stops coming up behind him. Things get more awkward.

* * *

 

 

Stiles runs into Derek at the Home Depot, six weeks after he poked fun at the fact that a lot of important people in Derek’s life have died. At first, he’s 90% sure Derek is going to send him back to hell, where he belongs. There’s this tension in the air, like the pressure before a thunder storm, or the deep breath before a dive. Stiles almost closes his eyes and welcomes it. Almost.

Instead, Derek asks, “What are you doing here?”

“Shopping—is this all we’re ever going to do? Ask what the other is doing?”

“Probably.”

“That sounds boring.”

Derek shrugs and glances down at his cart. Stiles follows his gaze, and makes note of the buckets of paint, packs of rollers, trays, tape. It looks… Productive. Busy work. _Nice_.

Stiles is hit with this overwhelming urge to beg Derek to let him help with whatever project he’s working on. It’s so strong that the words are almost out of his mouth before he gets ahold of himself.

“Um… What are you painting?” He inquires as causally as possible.

“A… House.”

It’s such a weirdly careful answer, with enough hesitation to make Stiles wonder if Derek doesn’t want him to know where he’s currently residing. He can’t be… He’s not actually _afraid_ of Stiles, is he?

The thought makes Stiles feel a little sick.

“Cool—Cool beans,” he stammers, taking a step back. “Well, good luck with that and everything. Make sure you leave a window open, no one wants to find your dead body in the middle of a Puce-colored room.”

Derek wrinkles his nose. “I’m _not_ painting it Puce.”

“Sorry, I meant Payne’s Gray, like all your shirts.”

“I’m painting it white!”

Aaaand it’s Stiles’ turn to make a face, now. “You can’t be serious, who paints their room white?”

“Normal people.”

“Boring people,” Stiles corrects, feeling a smile coming on. “Hospitals, retirement homes, padded rooms, airport bathrooms…”

Derek’s already putting the paint buckets back before he finishes, and yeah, Stiles is definitely grinning now. Derek’s look of surprise makes it fade a tiny bit, but only because it reminds him that maybe he hasn’t smiled—a real smile—since he got back and it’s kind of sad that it’s a _shock_ to people.

“Alright…” Derek pauses to pinch the bridge of his nose, like this is just too much of a hassle. Such a faker, Stiles can see a tiny smile hidden under that hand. “Since you’re the color _expert_ , what colors should I use?”

Stiles instantly says, “Red.”

Derek instantly shoots him down, “No.”

“Orange?”

“No.”

“Violet?”

Eyebrows move to stage A.

“Purple with an orange trim?”

“I’m not Willy Wanka, Stiles, pick a single, not weird color, or i’m going back to white.”

So, Stiles actually thinks about it, and an oddly comfortable silence forms around them as he taps his chin, and stares at the rows upon rows of color swatches.

“Blue.”

Derek is ready to protest, probably imagining some ugly Burnt Coral or something, but Stiles holds up a hand.

“No, hear me out. A soft blue is good for sleep, I read an article somewhere that it’s really calming for bedrooms, which was why I originally painted mine blue. Not that that helps much these days,” he babbled, stepping past Derek to pull out a strip of blues. In particular, soft, almost gray blues. He holds it up for Derek to see, and is pleased to find the man actually considering it. Stiles is not going to say it reminds him of Derek’s eyes, or, like, the ocean, or other things he might have once listed as Derek Hale’s Eye Colors. He’s lucky to even remember doing that, but, then again, it’s one of those memories they didn’t think we’re important when they tried to wipe him. He’s going to treasure the shit out of that memory, since he can’t find the list anywhere.

“How’d you know I was painting a bedroom?” Derek asks softly, taking the proffered color swatches and studying them more closely.

“Umm… Probably because the last time you had a place to live,it was the loft and was mostly brick and metal and you _left_ a giant hole in the wall, but actually took care of the rooms upstairs? You know, that rustic, slash modern, slash broken look all the cool kids are raving about?”

Derek chuckles, and it slightly blows Stiles’ mind. “Alright, alright. I’m choosing a blue for the bedroom… And white for the rest.”

Stiles hears a small voice in the back of his head tell him to do a victory dance—or half of one, because, gross, white—but he’s not sure if that’s Old Stiles speaking or something trying to mess with him. He settles with a nod, and a goofy grin.

By the time Derek leaves, Stiles has managed to convince him that he also needs new cabinet handles, a detachable shower head, and a single cactus plant.

Because, _'it will be like looking in the mirror, only cuter.’_

Stiles goes home empty handed, completely forgetting what he was there for. But, whatever, Home Depot should hire him for getting their grumpiest costumer to actually buy a cactus.

It’s also the best day he’s had in almost a year.

* * *

 

 

He wakes up later that night, clawing at his chest, trying to get them off of him. The rocks, the crushing—can’t breathe—too much blood in his mouth, his lungs. It’s too much, too vivid. Because he _remembers_ it from before he came back.

From that dark pit.

He’s wide awake now, and there’s no rocks or knives inside inside his childhood bedroom. Sometimes he forgets that he doesn’t seem to need sleep, anymore. But if he doesn’t try, it freaks his dad out. That is just too  _abnormal_ for his dad to handle, apparently. Werewolves sleep, therefor Stiles must sleep.

So, he lays back down, and thinks about dusty, gray-blue until he falls back into nightmares and bad memories.

* * *

 

 

The two things he doesn’t talk about—not that he talks about much, to begin with—are the hunger, and the pain. If Stiles was to explain it to someone, he’d tell them to imagine hunger pains, multiply by 30, then set yourself on fire. It’s a constant ache in his chest, where something is _supposed_ to be, and isn’t. He craves it all the time, finds himself itching to go running through the night in search of it.

Problem is, he doesn’t know what 'it’ is. Whatever’s missing, he lost down there with his 'human’ memories, and never got it back.

It causes Stiles to be tempted by weird things, like when an insane old hunter came to town and shots at everyone. There was this weird moment where Stiles was ducking behind a tree, hiding like the loser that he _used_ to be, and then he isn’t anymore. He’s standing over the guy, fingers curling into his neck until the nails drew blood and the guy’s breath comes out in rattling sobs. And he’s grinning, he can feel it stretched across his face and—

It’s Scott who finally shouts his name. “Stiles!?”

He lets go. The guy’s unconscious, but alive.

Stiles’ grin recedes with the wild hunger, replaced by a mix of horror and understanding.

He didn’t come back right, he didn’t come back the same at all. The color of his eyes, the out-of-control Spark that likes to answer his wishes, the pricks of pain in his forehead where the small nubs of black just broke through the skin, the hunger, the emptiness, the flatness of life, the bubbles of anger and cruelty that hurt his friends over and over again.

God dammit, he _knew_ , he just didn’t want to _know_.

He’s definitely a demon.

Stiles runs before anyone can stop him, and whatever he unconsciously wishes keeps the pack from finding him as he flees from Beacon Hills.

* * *

 

**Three Months Later**

  
He’s so drugged out he doesn’t even realize the door’s open until someone’s shaking him and the light does this wobbly thing where the door is supposed to be. The temptation to wish them into nothingness is strong, but Stiles has long since learned that he can’t wish people _back_ from wherever they go when he does that. He’s now officially, accidentally murdered three people.

He vaguely remembers them being what his dad once called 'bad’ people—seeing as two of them were trying to mug him, and one punched him in the face with brass knuckles—but that hardly fucking matters anymore. Stiles is bad people.

The thought makes him giggle, and choke, and there’s tears streaming down his face before he can stop them. Like he has any control anymore, everything’s out of control. Everything’s spinning and spinning and spinning and

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“Stiles.”

_What’s that?_

“Stiles, look at me.”

_No, I don’t have eyes._

“Yes you do… Please, Stiles.”

_What’s a Stiles?_

“It’s you,” the voice says. It’s so kind, that voice. Soft, calming, just like the hand on his arm. The one with weird black crawly bugs all over it—gross.

“You bugging,” he mutters, not liking those bugs, but loving the hands. Pretty, strong hands, making in feel so good. So much better than all the drugs he’s put in his body.

“What did you take?” The voice asks.

Stiles roars with laughter, startling the nicebughands away from his skinny, marked up arms. The bruises and needle marks will be gone within the day.

It’s part of the reason he keeps doing this, to remind himself he’s no longer human.

“All of them,” he giggles, rolling towards the bughands. They’re touching his face now, so soft; how are they so soft and so large?

“You’re really obsessed with my hands, huh?”

Stiles squints up at the face connected to bughands. It’s smiling, but the eyes look wrong. Unhappy eyes. Blue, glowing eyes.

Soft

Sleepy

Blue.

Stiles whispers a name before passing out, and it’s almost like a wish.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a rumble from all around him, like he’s wrapped up in a giant cat.

Wait… This feels too realistic to be a good trip.

Stiles furrows his brow, and opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is black, which freaks him out for about two seconds before he realizes it’s the back of a car seat, the rumbling is the car engine, and someone’s sitting in the driver’s seat. Someone with black hair, scruff going on beard, and really, really nice hands.

“What—” his voice cracks painfully, and it takes him a few seconds to continue. “Why are you here?”

Derek makes a sound somewhere between pain and humor, and glances back at him over his shoulder. He looks… Less okay than the last time Stiles saw him, and considering there were horns poking out of his head and he nearly killed someone in front of them all, that’s saying something.

“You look like shit.”

“Right back atcha,” Stiles rasps, his cracked lips aching as a smile bullies its way on to his face.

Derek turns back to the road, and notes, “You’re surprisingly lucid, for what I found around your apartment.”

“Mmh… Wasn’t mine.”

“The drugs?”

“The apartment.”

Derek’s lips purse a little at his answer, and they fall into one of those uncomfortable _I’m Driving Around With My Druggy Ex-Friend In The Back_ silences for a while. Stiles enjoys it, oddly enough. Whatever’s left of the drugs in his system are already starting to fade, and the arm tucked up against his chest has nothing but the faintest bruises on it now.

Yep, still a demon. Thanks for the reminder.

“Where are we going?” He asks after a while. Like he doesn’t know the answer, honestly, he’s been expecting someone for a while now. Even if his wishes have kept him pretty well hidden.

“Home,” Derek says, before reaching down to turn the radio on. That’s the end of that, Stiles guesses, as he turns to press his face back into the leather seat. It’s fine, he knew Derek would be mad when he showed up. He knew Derek would be the one to find him.

It’s always Derek.

* * *

 

 

One quick nap and several stops for gas later, Stiles finally manages to crawl out from the back of the car and stretch. That’s when he notices the clean—albeit, way too large—clothing he’s sporting. The gray shirt’s a dead give away for who the owner is.

“When’d you dress me?” He asks loudly as follows Derek into the truck stop. He takes great pleasure in the stink eye he gets from the lady behind the counter. Judgmental South, perfect place to lose yourself.

Derek shoots him his patented 'Shut Up Or I’ll Yadda Yadda to your Whatsit with My Teeth’ look. It’s honest-to-god the best thing Stiles has seen in months. It feels like home.

He’s so fucked up.

Which is probably why he follows Derek around like a baby duckling, never straying too far as they move past Popeyes’ Chicken, Slushies, and cooler after cooler of beer. Derek’s on a mission for a large pack of bottled water, bags of nut mix, and other Anti-American Truck Stop foods.

“You’re going to get us shot, buying stuff like that,” Stiles comments as Derek sniffs at a suspiciously red apple. Stiles is 67% sure it’s fake.

“You want something different, go pick it out.” Derek seems content with the apple, and grabs all three apples that have probably _ever_ blessed this store with their presence.

“Yeah, I… Would… If, you know, I had money,” Stiles reminds him, scratching at the back of his head. That, and leaving Derek’s side feels really bad right now. Like he might come untethered if he moves too far away from the apple-sniffing man.

Said man is now leveling him with another look. “I’m paying, I thought that was obvious.”

“Okaaay, then can we just—"he tugs on Derek’s sleeve, and leans towards the candy bars and other stuff Derek clearly hates. The werewolf’s stare settles into a glare, and silently tugs his arm out of Stiles’ grip.

Right, still angry with him. That’s reasonable.

"I’ll just… I’ll go… Over there, then,” he murmurs faintly, ducking his head as he scuttles over to the candy and tries to grab what he wants as quickly as possible. It won’t fill that hole in his chest—seriously, he _tried_ —but Stiles can’t remember the last time he ate, and apparently that’s a thing his body still needs to do.

He’s also suddenly hyper focused on a bag of Rolos, the small window showing gold-foiled chocolates catching all of his attention. It’s light, it’s like—it’s fire, he remembers the fire, how could he forget? It wasn’t everywhere, like some cliché, but everywhere it mattered. Like on his body.

Over and over and over and over again.

And now he’s starting to unravel, just like he knew he would. All the candies are on fire now, flames so hot, they burn blue. Stiles drops the burning bags of gummies and M&Ms and scuttles backwards, arms flailing to get the fire _off_.

“Derek!?” He’s screaming—someone’s laughing. “DEREK!”

“Stiles!” There’s a hand settling around the back of his neck—just a twist and he’s dead. _Oh, please._ “Snap out of it!”

His head’s jerked backwards, and he see’s worried, blue-ish eyes again. Just… _What is that color?_

Stiles goes limp so fast, Derek almost drops him.

Hissing through his teeth, “ _God dammit, Stiles_ ,” Derek hauls him up with one hand, and bends down to pick up the bags Stiles scattered in his freak-put with the other. If he wasn’t half-sure everything was about to catch on fire again, Stiles would have appreciated the other man’s flexibility.

As it is, he’s being dragged towards the counter by a very pissed off werewolf, who’s muttering about bruised apples and security cameras. The Stink Eye Lady behind the counter quickly hides something in her pocket—probably a cell phone with a nice, clear video of Stiles hallucinating on it.

“You better reign him in,” she warns as she starts bagging up their stuff. She’s giving Derek this understanding eye-flutter, and Stiles wants to puke all over her, on principle. “I used to have a cousin like that, done one too many and spent the rest of his days yellin’ bout bugs in his arms.”

Stiles gives her a dry smile, nodding towards Derek. “He has bugs in his hands, so, you know, if you’re as southern as you look, there’s no problem dating a distant relative, right?”

Derek’s fingers tighten around the back of his neck. “He’s… Adjusting.”

She scoffs, “not well enough to be in public, if you ask me. Mighty brave of you to take him on. Other folk most likely call the cops if he did that in _their_ store, guess you’re lucky you got me.”

Derek grunts.

Stiles sneers at her, but there’s another warning squeeze that has him holding his tongue. He could wish her away, it would only take a second, and poof!

But, Derek’s angry mutterings about security cameras has some merit. If Stiles’ freak-out was recorded, someone might notice exactly who it was who was in the store before she disappeared.

And maybe put a few other strange disappearances together.

So, yeah, silence. All the way to the car, and into the passenger seat, this time, and well on to the road.

“What the fuck was that?!” Derek finally bursts, his grip on the wheel tightening. And, it’s not like he wasn’t expecting it, but he’s still shaken and in need of that clam little oasis Derek was before this happened. He needs Buddha Derek, magic big hands, calm blue.

Which is the exact opposite of what he’s getting. Angry blue flashes in Derek’s eyes, each flex of his fingers around the steering wheel has it creaking in protest.

Stiles almost wishes he was back at the nasty old apartment he was stolen from. Almost.

“I had a… Flash back,” he whispers, hating the word, hating what it means, hating that all the anger whooshes out of Derek in a single breath. Because, of course he knows, he was the original Man Pain of Beacon Hills. He probably has his own brand of fire related flash backs, even now.

“From when you were gone?” Derek’s asking carefully.

Snorting, Stiles pulls his feet up, into the seat, and tucks his knees under his chin. “Which time?”

“When you… Died.”

“Uh, well, yeah.”

“What was it?”

Stiles blinks, honestly not expecting him to be so blunt. Stiles never asked about Kate Argent, even though he knew most of that situation, and sometimes there were questions eating away at the back of his mind about how, why, or if he was getting better. Maybe Derek doesn’t completely understand it, then. Maybe Stiles assumed a little too much of his friends all those months ago, when they dragged him back from hell.

“What, exactly, do you guys think happened to me?” He asks, watching Derek’s expression flicker from neutral to confused.

“We thought you died?” Derek pauses, and continues with a frown, “But, not really, I guess. Scott said there was no evidence that you were still in the jeep when it crashed, and I was inclined to agree with him.”

“Why not? I mean, they said it was burnt out, right? Before I wished it back into it’s glorious perfection.”

Derek raises an eyebrow at him, a faint smiling curling up the corner of his lips. It’s kind of amazing that he can coax one of those out of him, especially now.

“So _that’s_ how you got it back? It’s been driving me nuts trying to figure it out, and no one else seemed to even notice.”

“Yep. Magic wish giveth, and taketh away.”

Derek’s looking a little pale now, like he’s being reintroduced to horrors he didn’t even know we’re out there. Maybe Stiles should have left it at Derek Mad, me Druggie Freak. Stereotypes are just so much _easier_.

“We didn’t… It just wasn’t possible for your _entire_ body to be gone. Even your dad said there was no way the jeep could even burn that hot, there had to be something left, like bones, or your heart.”

Stiles frowns, dredging through his foggy memories for something he read years ago about cremation. He’s pretty sure Derek’s right about that, like there’s some kind of thing with the heart needing a certain degrees for some specific amount of time. But, whatever, he’s still confused about this 'not really dead’ thing.

“Where’d you guys think I was, then?’

"Dead but not dead.”

Stiles groans and lets his head fall against his knees. “That’s… Brilliant. Really.”

“We had no idea!” Derek snarls, the car giving a little answering growl as his foot presses harder on the gas. “How the hell were we supposed to know what happened? Why were you even that far outside of Beacon hills? Why did you crash in the first place? And since when could you _wish_ and make shit happen, anyway?”

“How nice of you to ask, oh, only three years too late,” Stiles drawls, not bothering to lift his face up from behind his knees. He’s too tired for this. This entire thing, returning home, telling the truth, facing his dad again. God, he doesn’t want any of it, especially not this conversation. “Look, it happened, it’s over. I went to hell, or whatever that was, I came back a demon. The end.”

Stiles is forced to look up when the car suddenly swerves through traffic. Which happened because Derek’s kind of bugging out, and they get a few horns blared at them in response.

“Very smooth,” comments Stiles.

“A demon,” Derek repeats.

“Yep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Did you just miss the horn things sticking out of my head the last time we met?”

Derek gets this uncomfortable look. “I was kind of distracted.”

“By what?” Stiles snaps, because, seriously? How did he miss that? That was a good 40% of why he ran away at the time.

Then Derek decides to say, “The guy you nearly killed?”

And Stiles just freezes.

Because Derek has _no_ idea. He has no idea what Stiles is anymore, or what he’s done. And, suddenly, there’s another conversation Stiles never wants to have; the one where he tells Derek, or his dad, or _Scott_ that he’s killed three people. Mostly accidentally, but still.

Scott will never let him in the pack again—not that he’s really interested in being a part of it anymore, but still. Scott probably won’t even be friends with him anymore, and never mind the whole murder thing, Stiles is pretty sure being a _demon_ is sort of a nail in the coffin.

Then there’s his dad.

Holy shit does he not want to deal with his dad, and his dad doesn’t want to deal with him. As far as the sheriff of Beacon Hills stands, his son is dead. Stiles is dead

Stiles never really came back at all, did he? He was dead all along, just a corpse, sitting at their meetings, the dinner table, pretending to sleep, ignoring that emptiness inside of him. Ignoring the emptiness that _is_ him.

Stiles gags, and gets the window down just in time to puke. He’s still coughing and dry heaving when Derek mutters, “what is _wrong_ with you?” With so much disappointment, it makes Stiles vomit again.

* * *

 

 

All the drugs are out of his system by the time Derek pulls into a motel parking lot, and turns the engine off. The car still smells like apples from when Derek finally reached for his produce and snacked away at them, one by one until they were gone. He doesn’t offer Stiles one, which is both rude and smart. Stiles did sort of throw up down the side of his car, and Derek kind of hates him right now.

“I’ll take the floor, if you want to save cash and get a single bed,” Stiles says, trying to break the he silence as he eyes the motel with trepidation. It feels kind of familiar, like the feeling of one of those empty memories bonking around in his head instead of just calling up them up like normal. There’s a hint of a bad feeling about motels, a flash of Scott’s face all screwed up in fear or hatred—Stiles isn’t sure—and the rest is a blur. Stupid, human, pointless memories. The ones they decided had to go to finally change Stiles, to remove his humanity.

Like the one where he met first met Derek, Jesus, they _really_ loved ripping that one from his mind. Stiles was forced to rely on a lot of Scott’s retelling of these events, which Stiles has noticed come with a lot of bias. Scott still doesn’t really like Derek, and it shows. Each re-told memory reads like an angry letter to an ex, or that next door neighbor who’s nice enough, but keeps blasting their country music in the middle of the night. Scott is an unreadable source of memories, but he was the only one who offered.

And now Stiles is stuck with a bad feeling, a gap in his memory to taunt him, a pissed off werewolf, and the temptation to wish it all away again.

He hates how easily that thought comes back these days. The first time had been a struggle, now it came to him as easily as breathing.

Surprisingly, Derek looks over at him and asks, “what’s wrong?”

Because even when he’s pissed off and the walls are up, he’s still paying attention to Stiles in his creepy, invasive-wolf ways. Probably picked up Stiles’ heartbeat rising, or a shift in scent.

Stiles considers breaking down and maybe screaming, “ _EVERYTHING_!”

He says, “nothing,” shrugs, and hops out of the car. Which is… Gross, at the moment, and Stiles takes a quick second to wish the grossness away before Derek comes around to check the damage and lets out noise of surprise.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did.”

Derek studies him for a long moment, before turning away and stalking off Lone Wolf style. Stiles figures he’ll stay here this time, and maybe not risk having another public freak out in the motel owner's office.

Here, though, is a creepy motel parking lot in the dark, which everyone knows breeds creeps and probably sexually transmitted diseases. And so, while the guy that appears in front of Stiles isn’t _really_ surprise, it still makes him jump a good foot in the air.

“Wanna a hit? Gram? Need a gram? $60 a hit,” the guy’s babbling, eyes already glassy from product sampling, fingers lurking near his back pockets. It’s not for the drugs, Stiles knows, that’s where he keeps his gun. Just in case Stiles is a nark, just in case Stiles doesn’t want a hit and maybe this guy can  _convince_ him otherwise.

“Nah, man, i’m covered. All good,” he says, plastering on his best grin. He knows he looks wrecked enough to be maybe a casual user, but not enough to beg this guy for a hit.

Thanks magical healing powers.

“Come on man, fifty! I’ll give it to you for fifty—you gotta have fifty bucks.”

Apparently the seller isn’t above begging, which means he’s probably sampled away all his product, anyway. Stiles can’t help the sneer that crosses his face, because he always feels like he’s better than these people, like he’s his dad’s son, and a 'good person’. It’s a fucking lie, of course, but sometimes his Swiss-cheese brain forgets that he’s a piece of crap.

So he says, “Fuck off, dude. I don’t want what you’re selling.”

And the desperate, drugged-out stranger pulls that gun of his. Stiles has about a second to start thinking 'I wish,’ when Derek is just _there_.

“Get away from him,” he growls, pressing his chest right against the gun, which is so stupid, and pointless, and brave, and kind of hot, but also stupid. He’s so close, the bullet would go through him and hit Stiles anyway. So, like, what’s the point?

Meanwhile, the guy kind of just whimpers, and waddle-runs away as fast as his coked up legs can carry him. Stiles is an asshole, so he laughs.

Derek is less amused, but still takes the time to eye Stiles over for wounds, or something. Stiles feels it like Derek actually ran his hands over his body, and can’t help the way his cheeks redden.

“A-Alright, alright,” he stammers, “That’s enough excitement for one day. Did you get us a room or not?”

There’s a pause.

“They only had single beds.”

Stiles sighs, “floor it is.”

Derek doesn’t say anything at all, but the moment the door closes behind them, he’s navigating Stiles towards the bed.

“Woah, what is this?” He asks, squirming to get away from that hand against the back of his neck. It tightens just before he shoves Stiles into the bed. “Are you finally having your wolfy way with me?”

Derek makes a face—not disgust, Stiles notes—before stripping his—the shirt is gone! Alert, shirt. Is. Gone. Bare chest is visible, sound the alarm and maybe church bells because _hooooollyyyy_ shit it’s been too long since Stiles has seen that.

It’s really no excuse for how Stiles crab walks backwards until he smashes into the headboard with a squeak. He knows his face is, like, gross beet-red at this point, which is stupid because it’s not like he’s actually a blushing virgin anymore. He didn’t, exactly, have money when he ran away from Beacon Hills, and drugs are expensive. But this is different, Derek’s different. Derek’s that unobtainable beauty Stiles oh-so-wanted to obtain once upon a time. No, not obtain, _treasure_.

He wanted to treasure Derek Hale, like he deserves to be treasured.

Derek’s giving him an unimpressed look now, and throws himself down on the bed with a grunt of, “go to sleep.”

“Wha—what, no goodnight kiss?” Stiles mutters, trying to pass his newly inflamed interest off as a joke, and maybe his fear, too. He thought he was over this when he died, for Christ sake.

Derek just growls, low in his throat, so Stiles slithers back down and stretches out beside him as best he can. It’s hard, because the bed is shitty and not exactly large or anything, so staying on 'his’ side is difficult and uncomfortable. He’s laying there, stiff and a little cold, and not sure he’s actually exhausted enough to need sleep. Sometimes it hits him, hard, sometimes he doesn’t sleep for days. Demon shit is weird, too bad there’s no instructional manual.

Stiles snorts, and gets a swack from Mr. Beefy Arms.

“Jesus, ow. I wasn’t even that loud,” he complains, rubbing at his chest. He notes the way that empty place sort of echoes with familiarity. Which is… Weird, because so far, nothing has touched that empty place since he came back. Nothing changes it, and it changes nothing.

How super creepy would it be to ask Derek to hit him again? Probably way too creepy, like borderline concerning for the guy. He’d probably ask if Stiles is okay again, and make weird assumptions about him that he… Probably already made when he found Stiles in a drug den.

“I’m still me,” Stiles blurts out, only to slap a hand over his mouth. Too late, you idiot.

But Derek doesn’t hit him again, he turns over, instead, and stares at Stiles. He can see most of Derek’s face, cast in red from the light of the motel sign streaming through the window. The sharp shadows around his eyes make it hard for Stiles to read his expression, or glean any sort of mood. He silence seems… Almost pensive, which isn’t what Stiles expected after basically everything that’s happened ever.

“I don’t… I don’t know if you are,” is the first thing Derek says after a good long stare, and it nearly rips Stiles apart.

“O-of course I am,” he whispers, chokes, _begs_. He has to be, he can’t be anything but himself, it doesn’t matter what happened, it doesn’t matter that he died and lost memories and has a great big hole in his chest. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Derek is right there, close enough for their noses to brush, hands cupping his face like he can just hold Stiles together. He can’t, Stiles is shattering all over the place.

“Stiles,” he whispers. “ _Stiles_.”

He’s too broken to respond, he’s making small, animalistic noises when he sobs. He’s falling apart.

“Stiles, listen to me—” he growls, _listen_! You are different, you’re going to be different. Things… change you in ways you can’t reverse, okay? Do you think i’m the same person I was before my family died?“

Stiles can’t really think about it, but somewhere in his mind, it makes sense. He shakes his head 'no’.

"Do you think I’m the same person I was before—before… Laura?” Derek asks, his voice wobbling, just a little.

And now he sees it. Jagged-edged shadows that cross Derek’s face, not from the motel sign’s glow, but from his past. He’s all sharp edges, broken bits, usually so well hidden under all that stoicism and anger. He’s cut to ribbons, under there, he’s got missing parts, too.

“Erica… B-Boyd,” Stiles chokes out, and watches as two more pieces fall away. Derek’s defiantly falling apart now, too, eyes too bright, and vulnerable.

“I can’t change the past,” he’s saying, a thumb brushing across Stiles’ cheek. “I can’t _fix_ any of this, not them, not myself, not you… We can’t fix it, Stiles, we just have to be whatever it is we are now.”

“But—I d-don’t want to be—”

“Yes, you do,” Derek interrupts, making Stiles choke out anther sob when he presses their foreheads together “because anything other than that is… Is you being gone, and I can’t handle that. Not again.”

Stiles laughs, weak and wobbly, and when did his arms get around Derek? Why does that even matter? He’s not a stranger, but Stiles was right back then. He did need to go somewhere else to get hugs.

“Sorry,” he says, because he is. He’s sorry for giving up. He’s sorry for letting that darkness push him away from everyone until he thought—he really thought he had no one left. He’s sorry he made a wish he couldn’t undo, _four_ times. He’s sorry they brought him back again. He’s sorry he came back broken, and different, and wrong. He’s sorry he likes silences now, and _why_ he likes them. He’s sorry his dad will always know he’s dead, the old Stiles, _his_ Stiles, his son. He’s sorry he never saw all those broken pieces, pretending to be the stoic Derek Hale. He’s sorry the Old Stiles never admitted how much he loved him, before half his memories were ripped away. He’s sorry that he still loves Derek with all his empty heart. He’s sorry for everything he’s done, and everything he’s going to do.

And Derek just kisses his cheeks, chasing tears, and says, “I am too.”

* * *

 

 

He sleeps.

And Derek’s presence isn’t some magical healing balm that cures all his nightmares away. He wakes up screaming, like usual, and Derek is there.

He’s there for him, and that’s all.

That’s all he needs. He honestly wouldn’t wish for anything more.

 

* * *

 

 

The drive the next morning is quiet, which Stiles doesn’t mind anymore. It’s interrupted when Derek pulls out the bag of Rolos Stiles dropped back at the truck stop, and unceremoniously rips them open with his teeth.

Stiles hasn’t laughed so hard since he died, which makes him laugh harder because _what is his life?_

They have a really good day, eating candy while Derek drives, talking about stupid shit like giant yarn balls and theories on Scott’s uneven jaw.

* * *

 

 

The next motel is 84 miles away from the clown motel Derek refused to stop at. He also refused to admit that he’s afraid of them, but Stiles totally saw the way his hackles rose as they drove past. Wolf-boy is totally scared of clowns.

* * *

 

 

The next few days aren’t too bad, but the closer they get to California, the twitchier Stiles gets.

He’s terrified of Beacon Hills, or rather, the people who live there.

Even so, each day is still kind of amazing, because, apparently, his Chicken Soup for the Soulless is a road trip with Derek Hale. He feels full in a way he can’t explain, like every time he makes the Sourwolf laugh, every family memory they lets slip, every look of wonder at something they find out in the desert is something to treasure.

He thinks that he might just be able to make it, if Derek doesn’t mind being a crutch for a while.

* * *

 

 

“Why are we stopping?” He asks, frowning as they start to slow down in what looks like the middle of nowhere. In lieu of an answer, Derek brings the car to a stop on the side of the road, and points past Stiles.

“What are you—” He snaps his head around, looking around for whatever it is Derek thought was important enough to stop for when they were drawing close to Beacon Hills. “What is—is that…”

It’s the ravine, the one he supposedly died in.

“Well this is morbid,” Stiles murmurs, noting the trail of broken trees his jeep left in its path. It’s an ugly scar, one he feels oddly responsible for, even if he wasn’t actually behind the wheel when it went over the edge. The whole thing is actually kind of creepy, if you think about it that way.

He didn’t die here, it just looks like he did. _Something_ made it look like he did.

Derek sighs when Stiles turns and raises an eyebrow at him.

“Scott and I came out here a lot, after you were gone,” he begins, leaning forward against the wheel to look out at the ravine. “We spent a couple hours a day trying to find a trail or a scent. Anything that could clue is in as to what happened.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have found it,” Stiles says, looking down at his lap. He doesn’t want to look at the ravine again, it’s all a great big lie.

“We figured that out pretty quick, but we just… We didn’t have anything else; no other leads, no ideas. All we knew was something was off, and we were going to fight to get you back.”

Stiles almost tells him where he did disappear, some random street on his way home. But he doesn’t, because somewhere in that hole where his heart used to be, he knows that Derek will think about it every single time he drives through town. If he stays in town, in that mysterious house he was painting before stiles left.

But that’s another conversation they’re just not having. There’s a lot of those going around ever since they reached California.

“Well, you found me this time,” he says, knowing his voice sounds flat, knowing he’s lacking that enthusiasm that they struggled to gain back as they traveled.

It’s just kind of weird, imagining Derek and Scott sort of… Bonding over his death. He wonders if they actually _talked_ , or just pointed and grunted. No, wait, Scott was talking—complaining about Stiles not enjoying his pack meetings to Derek once, wasn’t he?

The thought boggles his mind all the way past the Welcome sign, and well into town before a familiar road sign catches his attention.

“Hey, can we take a detour?” He asks suddenly.

Derek gives him a look. “Where to?”

Stiles hesitates. There’s a dozen people in this town he could see first, people he owes, people he loved. But, that’s not what he needs right now. Right now, he needs answers.

“The clinic, I want to see Deaton.”

 

* * *

 

 

The office is dark when they pull in, which is a given considering it’s nearly eleven at night, and most veterinary clinics _should_ be closed at this hour. But Derek says he senses that the doctor is in, so they climb out of the car and approach the front door. The thing is unlocked, which is just unsafe and weird, because there’s honestly no fucking way Deaton knew they were coming. There’s no way.

“You’re early,” Deaton calls from the back, his voice growing louder until the man appears behind the counter. “I haven’t got the—oh, you’re not Scott.”

Stiles snorts, “not even close. What’s he early for, if he was here?”

“A balm I’ve been working on, to speed up healing from Alpha wounds,” Deaton explains, not hesitating for a second to lift up the mountain ash barrier for them to cross. Stiles sort of wants to hiss and swat at it like a cat after his first experience with it upon his graceless return from death. Apparently, Deaton’s warded against demons.

Speaking of…

“I wanted to ask you some questions,” Stiles begins slowly as Deston moves across the work room and busies himself with whatever concoction he’s working on for Scott. Stiles isn’t that surprised when a warm hand finds his shoulder and stays there. Derek’s right here. Derek has his back.

Deaton looks up mid-pour, and prompts, “well?”

But it’s not as easy as that.

Because… Where does he even start?

When they finally put the Nogitsune down? When Stiles woke up in the hospital afterward, and remembered everything it did? Everything _they_ did. When they buried Allison? When the nightmares didn’t stop, or when Stiles trained himself to scream quietly, so he didn’t wake up his dad anymore? When he started avoiding people’s touch, because each and every time, it felt like that _thing_ touching him again? When he almost completely stopped talking, and no one said or did anything about it? When the new pack started to form, and no one believed him or trusted him about Theo, and he finally, really gave up?

Or maybe when he woke up again, this time without the hospital bed and Scott’s mom sneaking him pudding. He woke up on the floor of an abandoned factory, naked, screaming, and surrounded by friends who had no idea what to do now.

Maybe Stiles should ask what Deaton knew about hell; about being ripped apart and sewn back together again, about the _things_ he saw there, or the memories they took.

Or, maybe he can start with something Deaton did.

“Scott said that you warned them,” he begins, looking for something in Deaton’s eye that will tell him he’s asking the right question. “About me coming back wrong.”

“Not wrong, exactly,” Deaton argues, “but different.”

“So you knew where I was?”

The vet nods, and looks back down at the vial in his hand like its no big deal. Stile just popped into hell for a while, turned into a demon, no biggie.

“So you knew… You _knew_ I’d turn into one and you still let them bring me back?” Stiles snarls, ignoring Derek’s small grunt from behind him. “Do you know what happened because you didn’t stop them? I can’t _feel_ anything like I used to—half the time i’m struggling to remember what expression i’m supposed to have on, and the rest of the time I just don’t bother. I can't—I don’t sleep, really. When I do, it’s all nightmares—memories. I nearly killed that guy before I left…”

He takes a deep breath. Here we go.

“And I _did_ kill three other people after I left.” At Deaton’s shocked expression, Stiles adds, “Accidentally. Mostly. I didn’t know you can’t wish things back from the void, so I’m assuming they’re dead.”

“You 'wished’ them to die?” Deaton asks, apparently ignoring the rest of Stiles’ rant. Whatever.

“I wished them to be gone.”

“Then they may return, if we can find the right sort of wording,” Deaton says, gaze going thoughtful. “But that is for another time, right now… I need you to answer one question.”

Stiles glares at him, because, seriously? Oh, he just maybe _didn’t_ kill people. No rush to bring them back, it’s all good.

Derek mutters something under his breath, something that sounds as irritated at Deaton as Stiles feels, and it kind of makes it better. It keeps him from wishing Deaton would turn into a chicken, anyway.

He really wants to, especially with Deaton staring so earnestly at him, waiting for… What? Is he serious?

Stiles explodes, “Oh my god, just ask already!”

“What are you?” He asks immediately, only to add, “or more specifically, what do you _think_ you are?”

Stiles doesn’t… Quite… Understand the question. He thought Deaton knew? The guy just said he knew where Stiles was when he died, and Scott or someone else must have told him about the almost killing and the horns. So, why? What?

“I’m … A demon?” He says slowly, a small bubble of doubt forming in his chest. Has he been wrong this whole time?

“And what gave you that impression?”

_What?_

Stiles glances behind him at Derek, who looks equally confused. Derek holds his gaze for a moment, and shrugs. Not very helpful.

“Uh, everything? The murderous intent, the horns, uh, the hollow place where my heart’s supposed to be ,” he murmurs, looking away from Derek before he figures out what Stiles means. It’s not like he declared his undying love for Derek, so there’s no reason to feel this damn guilty for missing his heart. Then again, he’s made it pretty clear that he thinks Derek’s kind of amazing, and a really good road-trip buddy, and super sexy—there’s no way Derek missed all that arousal coming off of of him—and that he’s kind of _it_ for Stiles.

So, maybe not in so many words, exactly, but Stiles isn’t blind. He knows things shifted between them on their trip back, he just isn’t sure if he’s human enough to give Derek what he needs. Or if Derek really wants a demon for a boyfriend or whatever they’d be.

Deaton, meanwhile, is smiling.

“Uh, i’m glad this is so hilarious to you,” Stiles growls, losing his patience and honestly creeped out a little. Deaton doesn’t usually smile like that.

Putting down his vials and herbs, Deaton dusts his hands off on a cloth, and steps around the work bench to approach them without losing his smile. Before Stiles can tell him to back off with this serial killer look, Deaton whips a hand out, and tosses some kind of necklace over Stiles’ head.

There’s a split second of plain ol’ confusion, before Stiles feels a warmth start to spread across his chest. Looking down, he notices that the warmth is accompanied by a soft, blue glow that’s quickly spreading outward towards his limbs.

“What did you—?”

“It’s as I thought,” Deaton hums, before stepping back to cross his arms and watch the glow overtake Stiles’ body.

“You’re not a demon.”

* * *

 

 

Apparently, this wishing thing is more insane than he realized.

Apparently, _he’s_ the one who made himself into a demon, or what he thinks a demon is like.

The horns, the sharp teeth, the inability to pass mountain ash.

And it’s all because he felt like one. Because people were already treating him like something other, and wrong, and bad. So his subconscious decided that that’s what he was.

Bad = Demon.

Stiles cries again. It’s ugly, and harsh, and noisy, and he doesn’t stop.

He just cries

  
And cries 

  
And cries.

 

* * *

 

 

They’re loud, all these voices in his head.

Deaton says something about it passing, but right now Stiles is trying really hard not to stop the tortuous process with a wish, and turn that man into a cockroach. He’s both angry, and incredibly thankful at the same time.

Because Stiles isn’t a demon, he’s just one messed up Spark, who got possessed, had a door left open in his head, which made it easier for his Spark to trickle out and do stupid things like _kill himself with a wish_. Then he went to hell, got tortured, lost half his memories, and got sucked up up into the world of the living without all his bits and pieces.

Apparently, one of the memories they stole from him was The Core, some thing that holds everything else together, and makes him a real boy. It’s literally a core to his entire being, which is what that big, empty hole in his chest is all about. That space is supposed to be occupied with his core thing, and it’s supposed to be controlling his Spark so he doesn’t accidentally get rid of people by casually thinking 'I wish…’

All that being said, Deaton is a massive asshole. Yes, he’s managed to get a connection-spell thing going so his memories are steaming back into his head like someone turned on a power-hose in his ear. But, he also seriously failed Stiles _before_ all this happened. He didn’t talk to him, he never explained what being a Spark means, he never stopped to check Stiles over after the Nogitsune, or all his head trauma, or the Dread Doctor’s messing around with everyone, or when Stiles started to show signs of a so-called 'dwindling Core’. He did all of diddly-squat.

So, while his apology is heartfelt, and his assistance in finding his Core again is welcome, Derek’s got this look in his eye that Stiles is pretty sure he’s mirroring, himself.

There’s no way they’re forgiving or _trusting_ him again anytime soon. So… It just is. For now.

The volume goes up.

“Isn’t there some other way to do this?!” Stiles shouts over all voices. There’s this flash of Scott, babbling about Allison’s hair and how it moves, then it’s Jackson, his face screwed up in anger, and then there’s water, and a wrench, and blood, and—did Deaton reply? Stiles might have missed it.

He kind of wishes—no, not _wishes_ holyshit, maybe kind of wants, but it’s okay—he could hold Derek’s hand, but apparently Deaton’s office has turned into a state penitentiary. No touching while the prisoner is blasted with memories.

Whatever.

Stiles wants to get off this ride, now.

* * *

 

An hour later, Stiles feels sick, headachy, irritated, and empty.

There’s no more memories streaming in, that’s done, but he’s still missing the Core. It feels worse than before, maybe because he got his hopes up, maybe because his head is crammed with memories he has to re-learn all over again, and the process is kind of intense.

Derek’s allowed to touch him, though, so the hand curled around his own is really nice. The one against the back of his neck is, too, but there’s something sort of going on here that Stiles is slow to pick up on. Derek’s got his thinking face on, and Deaton’s in the other room looking up spells.

“Whasit?” Stiles slurs.

Derek squeezes his hand, browsing furrowing to stage B. “I think… You don’t have any idea which memory it is?”

“S'lot of memories ’t look through.”

“You can’t tell where there’s a gap?”

Stiles gives him such a look. He better be joking.

He wasn’t, and looks properly embarrassed as he mutters, “Right, there’s a lot of them. I just… Maybe I can help?”

“How?”

“We can go through things and see if I remember something you don’t,” he suggests.

“That’ll take longer then Deaton’s search for th'spell.” Stiles shrugs a little, and tilts his head back into Derek’s hand. “Too bad yer not an alpha, you could stab me with claws and woosh! Memories.”

Derek’s got that look again.

“No, Derek. No. Not—”

“I’m calling him right now.”

“No!”

“Stiles, he can help,” Derek argues, and nice warm hands are abandoning him.

“I don’t wanna see him!” He yells as Derek turns away and pulls out his phone. Stiles instantly wishes it would go somewhere else, but nothing happens other than his headache getting worse.

“Hey, Scott…” Derek begins.

Stiles hates everything.

* * *

 

  
By the time Scott arrives, it’s one in the morning, Derek’s been banished to the corner of the room—because traitors don’t get to hold hands—and Deaton has tried two other spells that did nothing other than make Stiles throw up, and float for two minutes.

Scott bursting through the doors, yelling Stiles’ name is literally the last thing he needs right now.

“Stiles!?”

“Shuuuuut uuuup!” He howls, curling into himself even more. He’s formed a near-perfect ball on the veterinary table, and everyone can fuck off.

“Stiles… You’re alright,” Scott breathes, sounding stupidly relived.

Stiles can’t resist grumbling, “Clearly i’m _not_.”

Yeah, but Scott’s too happy that he’s alive to be bothered by his attitude, and strides right over to pat his hip. After a few minutes of awkward hip-patting and pathetic attempts to engage Stiles in a conversation, Scott turns to the others for an explanation.

Which Stiles ignores.

He’s watching his dad in the hospital, again. Honestly, a large sum of these memories he could do without, especially since he’s sort of living through them twice this way.

“Stiles.”

His dad was okay, apparently. That’s a good ending for a shitty memory, at least.

“Stiles?”

The aftermath means bills, though. Stiles can’t help but wonder if maybe his own hospital bills were void when he was listed as legally dead. He never checked, he never even asked his dad.

“Stiles!”

“What?!” He hisses, forcing his eyes open to find two people glaring at him. Derek and Scott are… Annoying right now. He can’t think properly, maybe that’s the wrong word.

“Sit up so Scott can stab you in the neck.”

No, 'annoying’ _is_ the right word.

“Don’t wanna.”

“Stiles… We need to do this, now,” Derek says, his voice full of warning. It’s like there’s something Stiles missed during their talk with Deaton, something that’s got the werewolf on edge.

Stiles tries to go through their conversation in his head, but the glare intensifies, so he does as he’s told, and sits up.

Scott’s saying something, and flashing an apologetic smile as he lines up his claws with Stiles’ neck. Whatever, Scott is still in the dog house with Deaton right now—and what did the vet _say_?

What is it? What’s got Derek rushing to get this fixed, to the point of risking damage from an alpha’s claws in his neck?

’ _—a few different spells to try to bring those memories back up to the surface. There might still be ones he doesn’t physically have anymore… Those will be harder to get. Harder, but necessary.“_

There’s some static in the memory, and Stiles thinks Scott is asking him if it’s okay, so he nods.

Just before everything goes black, he remembers what Deaton said.

’ _If we don’t get his core back soon, he’ll die._ ’

* * *

 

 

It’s not a nice memory.

Because of course it’s not.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is sitting on the hood of his jeep, something he rarely does, because it’s his baby and he’s paranoid about denting the metal with his bony butt. There’s a chill in the air, enough so that the thin, plaid shirt he has on over his tee isn’t quite enough to keep him warm.

His breath clouds in front of his face, distorting the image of the wreckage in front of him.

Sometimes, he’s caught off guard at how beautiful the Hale house is—or was. He can still see those elements that once made it a welcoming home, scattered between signs of fire damage and nature’s slowly descending decay. The curl of wood on the corner of each window sill, the way the porch was built to be wide and inviting, the many rooms, the now-overgrown garden space, the large kitchen. All of it was designed for family, and once upon a time, was loved by a family.

It really was a beautiful house, once.

Stiles breathes out another cloud, and kicks his legs out in a lame attempt to warm up. He’s not even sure why he’s out here, something just called to him, and he came a-running. It’s not really the first time he’s needed to get away from everyone, especially lately. School is too loud, too crowded, too traumatic.

For fucks sake, he’s forced to walk down the same hallway he watched his other self die in not that long ago.

But today, today it’s something else. He just needs to be here, he had to be here before something ended. Something’s changing, a door’s closing, a thing is taking flight—or something—and Stiles is here to watch it go.

Or maybe he’s insane, because there’s nothing out here but a tomb and trees. Nothing’s happened since he arrived.

"Oh please don’t let me be insane, I don’t wear it well,” he whines to no one, and wraps his arms tightly around himself.

He waits twenty more minutes before giving up.

When he gets back home, there’s a text from Scott telling him that Derek left with Braeden a half hour ago. There’s no goodbye text from Derek. There’s nothing from Derek.

Stiles gets this sickening, swooping feeling, like something just rustled in his chest, and took off.

Like someone just slammed a door shut in his face.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles wakes up, and nothing’s perfect. Getting his core back doesn’t magically fix everything, even if it does change a few things.

One thing is Scott.

Stiles can’t hate Scott, he’s never been able to hate Scott—he’s never even really _wanted_ to hate Scott. He’s been angry, and hurt, and let down by his best friend, but it’s not enough to keep him from wrapping his arms around Scott and hugging the life out of him.

He died, and is finally waking up for the first time today. Hugs are allowed, grudges notwithstanding.

So, Stiles hugs his best friend, and firmly tells him that they’ll always be best friends, and he’ll always help him, but he’s not a part of Scott’s pack. He hasn’t been for a while.

And it’s fine. It will work out.

The other thing that changes is Deaton, who promises to help Stiles work on getting his Spark working in the _right_ ways. It doesn’t fix things between them, he’s still thinking about changing him into an animal, but Stiles isn’t going for perfect. It’s a change, and that’s fine.

Another thing is his dad.

God, his _dad_ , who’s been on leave for a month due to the stress of losing his son _twice_ giving him an ulcer and making it impossible for him to focus on work. Apparently, the sheriff’s department has been bringing him food, coming over to play cards, watering the single plant in the living room, and keeping an eye on the whiskey bottles in the cupboard ever since Stiles left. They took better care of him than Stiles has for the months before he died, and the months after he came back.

The first thing he does is apologize for being so selfish, to which his dad says  _he wasn’t selfish_ , to which Stiles argues that _he was and he could have done better_. Which is when his dad starts laughing at how ridiculous they are, and that final wall breaks between them.

They both cry for at least a solid hour. Seriously, they’re going to flood Beacon Hills at this point.

There’s snot, and secrets told, and promises made. He really loves his dad, and that’s never changed, but he’s starting to realize that he’s changed, so their relationship has changed as well.

It’s not a bad thing.

 

The last thing that changes _isn’t_ Derek.

Derek stays the same. He’s his usual broody, worry-wart, marshmallow self; with eyebrows that earn themselves their own Intensity Chart. He seriously doesn’t change one bit.

It’s Stiles who changes. The horns and teeth are gone, with a little help from Deaton, and he’s managed to sleep a full night’s sleep once this week. So, it’s him who comes back into this world wide awake and not about to waste another second. It’s Stiles to breaks the ice and straight out, awkwardly, asks Derek Hale out on a date.

They have coffee—or, were supposed to have coffee, but somehow end up at the diner making straw-wrapper snakes wiggle around with drops of lemonade. There’s still a hint of fire on the edge of his vision sometimes, but Derek laughs at the mess they’re making and it’s fine. It’s fine because Derek’s laughter is infectious, and beautiful, and this right here?

This moment is almost perfect. Almost.

But he couldn’t wish for anything more.

 


End file.
